The Mirror
by balky
Summary: Lovecraft mythos set in Cornwall.


The Mirror

**August 26th 1924 **

My shaking hand prevents me from writing too fast in case I cannot make myself clear. What I am to be setting down is an account of the findings that I unwittingly uncovered whilst hunting for a few antiques in the West country, and the horror that I have found waiting for me here. At this present moment in time I feel that I am not in any danger but that the abhorrence shall soon be closing on me, and that there is nothing I can do to prevent it's coming. That I am alone is plainly clear. Time is non-existent. The very air of this place is oppressing, heavy like the calm before a tremendous thunderstorm with the promise of events to come.

Days ago, it seems so long, I took some holiday from my employer so that I may have two or three weeks to pursue a favourite hobby of mine, antique hunting. I do not have an extensive knowledge of rare or ancient objects but I do know what I like. Perhaps some of that knowledge would have prepared – or at least warned – me of that which I am to face. Value of antiques is not of any real interest to me. Curiosity holds more value in my book; something with a little bit of strange history to talk about and amaze friends with. Amongst my small but modest collection are various scriptures, sketches by supposed mad princes, articles of clothing and jewellery holding some strange secret, a rather intriguing wood -carving and the mirror. That damn mirror…

The wooden carving was acquired in Scotland three weeks ago in a small shop situated near Loch Ness, on it's own and rather out of the way. I had been staying with relatives at the time who could not place the shop I described to them.

It was not only a shop but also a 'tea house', or so said the small neatly painted sign above the front door. Feeling that I had taken in enough of the countryside for one day I decided to stop for some refreshment before returning to my kin. Entering the green wooden door, I thought that I had walked into what appeared to be someone's living room. A small bell above the door behind me tinkled gently as the slowly closed itself. Countless odds and ends, books, miniatures and other knick-knacks were scattered in a haphazard fashion either on shelves or in piles on the floor or tables. Untouched and unused were words that sprang to mind. As I was glancing over the room a small, balding man, who was in his late eighties by the look of him, walked through a door opposite me. He beamed a smile at me, not surprised to see me standing there. That smile seemed quite genuine at the time but when I think back it feels that he knew me or knew something about me, or had possibly met me before. Maybe…

"Tea?" he asked.

"Yes, thank you" I replied, smiling back. The old man looked about the room.

"Feel free to have a look around. If anything takes your fancy just let me know when I bring your tea."

"You mean that everything in here is for sale?" I queried.

"Of course. I'm sure you will find something to your liking." He turned and walked back through the door by which he had entered. I stood for a few seconds before walking over to a large oaken bookshelf, lined with some old paperbacks, new paperbacks, pulp novels and musty old leather bound volumes, some of which having no titles on their covers or bindings. One in particular was rather worn, covered in a deep red leather. It was very heavy for it's size and felt warm to the touch.

The front cover announced it's title as:

Translated notes of the

Original Latin version

Of

The Necronomicon.

No author was mentioned anywhere on the book. Inside, as I turned the crackling pages, I saw strange sketches drawn inside the margins and round the outer edges. Creatures, produced from an obviously fantastic imagination, swam, flew, ran, lumbered and fell upon other smaller beings, devouring them with a cannibalistic evil and seeming utter disregard. Those creatures were mainly octopoid in appearance, with thin tentacles or feelers twisting from their faces. Fat bloated bodies suspended by huge bat wings. And the eyes. Dark, evil, brooding eyes that stared out from the page. Deep yellow they were. Hypnotic, all seeing and appallingly devilish. Glancing closer at one of the tentacled heads I could swear that it was reaching out for me…

I was brought around from the trance or miasma when I heard the door open once more and close rather loudly. Spinning round in surprise, I had momentarily forgotten that I was in the shop.

"Intriguing, isn't it?" This was spoken as more of a statement than a question.

"Mmm, yes…yes it is," I replied, unsure now as to what I had seen on that first page.

The old man had set my cup of tea and a plate of assorted biscuits down on a table. I took up my cup whilst the old man spoke. Referring to the book, he said, "Two hundred years old that book is, and it's a translation of words far, far older. But I'm afraid that book is the only item here not for sale. But there are plenty of other curios I think you would be interested in; if you liked the book." Whether I had liked the book or not I could not say, only that it had held me in awe? Wonder? I could not remember.

The shopkeeper took from one of the shelves a small carved figurine, the like of which I had never seen before. Or had I? The detail of the piece was so intricate that it appeared as a sort of 'still life'. This had most certainly been a painstaking task to carve. Standing ten inches it had a fat bloated body perched like a bird atop a large rock with it's clawed, webbed feet gripping the stone. Short taloned arms hung loosely at it's sides, and behind it were folded a pair of great bat wings. The whole thing vaguely resembled a flying frog, or would have if it had not been for the beasts head, for this mirrored the head of the creature I had glimpsed in the Notes of the Necronomicon. After studying it closely for a few moments I fancied that the figure quivered and moved ever so slightly.

"Forty two pounds." The shopkeeper had obviously noted my apparent interest. "It is a fine piece, after all."

"I only have thirty with me." I think I feigned my financial standing at that time, and put on an air of hopelessness.

"Thirty it is then," he replied, "and I'll throw in the tea and biscuits." I gladly handed over the figurine and the money and finished my refreshment whilst the shopkeeper wrapped up my purchase. I noticed that my hands had become wet after holding the carving. Sweat? After several minutes he handed me the neatly bound parcel, and I bid him good day.

"Before you go, sir," he beckoned me back, "I do believe that there is some small amount of paperwork dealing with the history of your figurine. If I could take down your address I shall forward it to you as soon as I have found it." Pleasantly surprised at hearing this I wrote my address down for the old man. When I think back…was that a mistake?

It was a week after this that saw me in Portloe, Cornwall. When away for two or three weeks at a time, my Mother stays at my house in Hastings, giving her the chance to visit some old friends. I had asked her to forward any post for me to The Ship Inn, where I would be spending the better part of a fortnight.

Portloe is a quiet fishing village nestled amid hills, trees and coastal cliffs, tucked away from prying eyes. Traffic is rare and the people are friendly.

My room at The Ship was small, but extremely comfortable, with a double bed covered in the plumpest and softest of blankets and a bedside table tucked to one side with a small brass lamp. An old but equally cosy armchair sat in one corner, slightly lower to the floor than normal, but this added to it's comfort. And opposite this a small chest of drawers. The bedroom window looked out over a narrow road that immediately fronted the Inn, and then across to a well kept garden, at the back of which ran a small stream which spilled out into the sea at the harbour. The noise of a stream bubbling and trickling is a splendid thing to wake up to in the morning.

The first couple of days were taken up by exploring the surrounding countryside and seemingly secret cliff walks, known only to those who spared the effort to look for them. Forgetting my camera was a shame, for the scenery around this part of the country is always a pleasure and makes me feel at home, and at ease.

On the third day I decided to visit Falmouth, with a mind to see Fowey, Mevagissey, Truro and a number of other towns and villages at a later date until I found something that took my fancy or until I ran out money. Enquiring of the landlord about transport he told me that a bus called in to the village at around a quarter to nine, and left at approximately nine a.m. This was the only bus to Falmouth so it was essential to catch it on time.

I was up and breakfasted early and waited a little way up from the Ship. The morning sun had not quite warmed up the early air but it certainly promised to be a good day.

My bus journey was a pleasant one, shared with several other passengers who were picked up or dropped off at various stops along the way. We passed along plenty of narrow lanes, all too common in the West country, suitable for one vehicle at a time only to pass. Here was some of the most wonderful countryside that would have graced an artists canvas.

The bus travelled North then Northwest towards Truro before rounding back to Southwest towards Devoran, Penryn then finally to Falmouth.

We eventually arrived, being dropped off in the centre of the town, and were told that the bus would be returning at four o'clock. Our journey to Falmouth had taken around two hours, so that left me plenty of time for browsing the impressive selection of shops. Turning off of the main road I followed a smaller but equally busy side street. Gentlemen's tailors of the highest standard were there, catering for the business and country gent alike; countless bakers and confectioners; women's salons; fresh fish sold straight from the trawlers; and two antique shops. The first of these dealt solely in furniture and looked like it was a fairly new shop. I entered for a perusal, not noticing the slight mustiness you often get in these places. Spotless inside, and all the furniture was polished to a shine. The owner, quite a young man, mentioned that he had indeed just set up shop here two months ago. After a last glance round I exited and continued past two paper stalls and a bakers until I saw the second of the antique shops.

I assumed that this shop was well established here for it's windows were dusty or misty and had certainly not seen a damp cloth for some time. Even the cobwebs looked like they had been resident for years as they seemed to have picked up their own layer of thick dust. So bad was it that it was not very clear what sort of items were proffered within. Giving the outside a brief glance up and down I reached for the door. That was all I could remember before I found myself inside with the door closed behind me and a small bell tinkling above it. The opening of and passing through the door was a haze, a dream. Turning and looking back out of the window onto the street proved to be of little use for it seemed that I could see less of the street from inside than I could of the shop from the outside. It was that bad that the passing of people was not at all obvious. Back inside the shop the very air felt heavy. Tiny dust motes gently whirled slowly through the air where my entrance had disturbed them, pinpointed by whatever light managed to penetrate the soupy windows. A stillness smothered everything within, halting it in time. Strong, deep smells of foreign woods and spices assailed my nostrils, overshadowing an underlying odour. This was perhaps what I associated more with antique shops but not in quite such an oppressive manner.

Turning my head slowly about the shop I was reminded of the one I had visited in Scotland, with the goods in an apparent lack of order and disarray. More piles of books, small boxes, curios, figurines, newspapers and items of jewellery were placed haphazardly. Shelves were few and far between. It actually looked more like a jumble sale or flea market. Everything had a thin coating of dust. I dragged my finger across a small side table and looked at it. The dust was tinged with a grease or oil. Smelling it made me catch my breath. Rotten. Something certainly smelt so. Cleaning my finger on my handkerchief I continued to look the shop over. In one corner was an old leather topped desk with a small lamp, shaded with green glass, and in the opposite corner was an old cash register. From a door behind these came a shuffling. Presumably the owner…

…looking back now I remember that all sounds from outside the shop had ceased, not even the lapping of the sea or the engines of the ships was conspicuous…

From the doorway at the rear of the premises stepped a man of slight build with greying hair and of perhaps about sixty years of age. His eyes seemed dark in the gloom of the shop and showed no surprise at seeing my standing there.

The sudden overpowering smell of dead fish wafted across the room but, as good manners dictate, I made no mention of it and tried to show that I not noticed it even though it became fouler by the second. I remember hoping that the shopkeeper had not noticed the look of distaste that must have surely crossed my face.

Walking over he shook my hand. "Good of you to come" he beamed, with a smile like a Cheshire cat. If it was at all possible, the stench grew stronger as he approached. Fighting back the bile, I introduced myself.

"Harding. James Harding. And you are…?" I prompted his name and his smile grew wider.

"Hobbs" he answered. "Did you say James Harding?" He then gave me a queer look. Did he suspect?

"Yes" I replied, a touch curious.

"Well, _Mr Harding_, do look around. I'll be just through that door there if you have need of my assistance." Mr Hobbs walked over to his leather topped desk and pulled out a small book and a pen. He wrote in it briefly, muttering my name. I began to feel slightly anxious. Hobbs saw the look on my face and spoke. "I merely like to keep a record of who…or rather how many people visit my shop." This did not make me feel any easier. Was he telepathic?

He closed his book and placed it back in the desk drawer before locking it, then exited the room through the door he had indicated. The fishy reek noticeably lessened as he left.

It was a few moments before I began looking the shop over. I was after a picture, something in an occult or macabre fashion to go with my figurine. Most of the framed pictures were of typical country scenes. There were various old newspapers and several card folders containing prints or sketches. And a few large books which turned out to be albums or portfolios of some artists work. One of these held several small pictures drawn in black ink, signed by one artist, dated between 1670 and 1700. They depicted the burning of what I assumed were witches, until I examined more closely the faces of the executioners. They were not quite right, most being hairless with large eyes and wide mouths, with disproportionately large heads. Not inhuman looking, just scary. Another picture showed the chasing and then killing of one of the odd looking folk by normal looking people. And another, with a priest standing over one more of these odd people who had been staked to the ground in an effort to restrain them. An exorcism? Maybe. There was no indication of where these scenes took place, if they were supposedly true. They were also strangely titled. There was one called "Du Dower Ros", which pictured a ritualistic ceremony on a small outcropping or island just off of the coast. And another titled "Dagonne O Bos Pol" had hundreds of prostrate worshippers atop a huge semicircular headland of the coast praying or chanting to whatever was beginning to creep up out of the dark sea over the cliff head.

Each of these sketches was incredibly detailed, which was reflected in the price. Eighty pounds per sketch was forty pounds more than I was readily willing to pay. For quite some time I just stood there, trying to make up my mind as to whether or not I could afford just one of them, until I decided to look around the shop again. Another twenty or so minutes passed and still nothing had come to light. It was when I'd felt ready to give up and take one last look at the album when I caught a glimpse of a small round mirror, twelve inches across and slightly convex. The actual mirror itself was unremarkable but the frame struck in me a chord of recognition…

A being, obviously not of this world but born of a frantic imagination, spanned at least half the circumference of the mirror from the top down. The creatures head was at the top of the mirror gazing outward, flaying out tentacle like, but very thin, appendages down each side of the frame as if embracing that which it owns. The face of the beast could not be described with ease except that it was most definitely aquatic, of octopoid origin. It's eyes, small and piggish, radiated an evil such as I had never found before in any piece of art or antiquity. Below this malevolent creature and filling the rest of the frame were bi-pedal beings, but still portraying their aquatic origins with gills and webbed hands or feet, diving in or emerging from the water. Thin lipped with short fat necks and bulging lidless eyes, I stared at them for quite some time. And then I fancied that the glass shimmered.

Jerking suddenly I broke my daydream. Feeling a little foolish I checked the mirror for a price tag. The creatures on the framework were too closely related to those I had seen in Scotland, and to that which I purchased there. Disheartened to find no price tag, the mirror was replaced. Anyway, it was a picture that I was after.

Returning to the photo album, I removed the picture that I required and walked over to the door where Mr Hobbs had said he would be should I need him. He was arranging a bookshelf when I entered, and turned when my toe scraped the floor.

"Ah, Mr _Harding_. Any luck?" I was becoming distinctly irritated by the way he kept on emphasizing my name whenever he spoke. Have they followed me?

"Yes," I answered, producing the picture.

"Was that all, James?" Or did anything else catch your eye?" Jesus, how familiar did he want become? Was he trying to provoke me? I replied, almost cautiously.

"Well, Mr _Hobbs_, there was a mirror that rather struck me as being a peculiar piece, but it was not price marked, and it did look expensive. Besides, I was only really looking for a picture." Hobbs beckoned me back through the door onto the shop floor over to where I had placed the mirror.

"Would this be the item?" he questioned. I said it was so, and he proceeded to pick it up and walk over to the old desk. From a drawer he produced some old newspaper and began to wrap it. He continued. "I was not asking much for the mirror by any means, and seeing as you are spending eighty pounds on that picture then I will let you have it for nothing." On reflex I almost began to protest but instead kept quiet, giving Hobbs a perfunctory "thank you, that's most kind". The mirror was wrapped and neatly bound, and the picture was slipped into a cardboard sleeve whilst I counted out eighty pounds.

That was two days ago now; the 24th. I remember very little of the journey back to Portloe, only that I had felt so lucky as to have received a gift that must surely have some worth to someone. I have since, I think, found it's worth. Certainly not monetary worth, for the recent occurrences point to it being vaguely alien. An eye for spying. Is Hobbs a spy?

Aug.27th.1924

-The morning is light and clear, and the sea is calm. How often I find my gaze wandering to the sea, staring out to the grey vastness in awe, which then turns quickly to a shuddering fear-

I think this shall be the last day of my writing, so I must be precise in my dialogue, despite the events of last night(26th), in case my fears prove themselves to pass.

The night of the 24th was comparatively uneventful, with dinner being a brief but hearty affair. I had retired to my room early, shortly after eating. My days purchases were placed on the dresser along with my figurine from Scotland. Frowning, I looked carefully at my two parcels. Coincidence though it obviously was, my two parcels were wrapped in exactly the same fashion. Same folding in the same places, as near as could be, and both sealed with brown packing tape. Another little story I could add to tell my friends. Leaving them wrapped, I opened the bedroom window slightly for a touch of fresh air. Being a low first storey window, iron bars ran vertically across to prevent the ingress of unwanted visitors. Undressing, I slid into bed.

That nights sleep was not altogether restful, rather it was more fitful and uneasy. It was not long, it seemed, that I had been asleep when I started dreaming-

**-everything was dark at first, until my eyes adjusted to the light. When they had become accustomed I found that I was drifting through deep waters. The sea. No sound reverberated through the misty liquid, and it seemed that I moved in slow motion. Forces other than my own were guiding me towards some unknown goal, as I swam without any impetus. Slowly into view came a few blocks of green stone, jade, obviously shaped by hand for their angles were too defined with no sign of erosion, although their geometric shape was unimaginably hard to make clear. Drifting closer I could discern the faint outlines of a building in the distance. Small at first, I expected to be within reach of it's walls soon, but it was taking an age for them to come any closer. This underwater structure was infinitely bigger than I had first suspected. Eventually I came to within around one hundred feet of the walls, staring in total disbelief. No human could have built this for it's geometry was all wrong, and surely could not have stood as it was unsupported. But on a block to my left were the engraved words, 'Built by Randall Smith'.**

**The walls rose to over four hundred feet before my eyes lost sight of the topmost portions. The architect here (Randall Smith?) must have been a genius or a stark raving madman, for the angles of this structure totally defied every law of physics, geometry and gravity ever applied in science. In this asymmetrical world symmetry was being openly mocked. Order did not belong here. Everything screamed of madness and I found myself starting to feel claustrophobic. Ahead of me yawned a massive stone archway with a pitch black void beyond which light could not penetrate. The portal stood fully one hundred feet high and sixty feet wide. It's topmost portion was carved. Floating closer, a chord of recognition was struck within me, turning quickly to a chord of fear knotting in my stomach. The carving was an exact likeness of that on the mirror, and upon this realisation a wave of panic and nausea swept through me. A feeling of trespass and terror took me, and I felt that I had desecrated some forbidden temple. My breathing was becoming rapid and my claustrophobia growing. An immense feeling of dread began to overwhelm me and I turned to escape only to find that the maddening walls now surrounded me. I glanced in all directions in apprehension of what was to come. From the darkness of the archway I sensed a deep evil emanating, although nothing seemed to stir within. Except bubbles. Small at first, growing slowly larger and rolling round the top of the archway's lintel before spiralling towards the all too distant surface. Staring at the blackness of the doorway was all I could do; I was frozen to the spot in fear. A deep heaviness or oppressiveness swept out of the dark and washed over me, caressing. Movement was impossible, even to turn my head. Heavier and heavier became the pressure of the water until a shape started to emerge into the faint light. A dim shadow at first, which quickly moved forward to float within the archway. Tentacles writhed around the edge of the giant doorway, feeling their way, gripping the stone, getting ready to pull…something through. Stark terror now gripped me and I tried to force a scream but only screamed in silence as from beyond the dark heaved a huge bloated head. Fish, toad? I knew not. Slimy, monstrous, evilly glinting yellow eyes above rows of venomous black teeth and an enormous beak, like that of an octopus. Circling this beak were several more tentacles, tipped with black barbs, roiling towards me to where I floated. Two of these gripped me round the waist and chest, at which I tried to struggle. In vain. It was then that I started to shout and scream like a maniac, but the instant I opened my mouth I felt and then saw tiny little feelers emerge from my throat. Eyes wide in terror and panic like I had never known, I lost all sense of realism, if indeed there were any. Looking back at my nemesis I saw one single tentacle head for me and wrap itself around my neck and to slowly squeeze. The pressure in my head was immense, and as I was drawn up to the foul creatures eyes I could feel my skull begin to crack, when a booming alien voice exploded in my mind, "CTHULHU"-**

At the instant that voice called, I sat bolt upright in my bed gasping for breath and glaring round the room with wild eyes staring like marbles. A sweat chilled my body, and I remember feeling disorientated, taking a few moments to fully realise where I was. Leaning over and striking a match, I glanced at my watch, seeing that it was only three o'clock in the morning. I was about to blow out the match when I noticed a glistening on the surface of my dresser. Lighting the bedside lamp showed that the whole of the dresser was covered with what I presumed to be condensation, until a cold draught blew across my face. The window was wide open. It had obviously been raining and blew in with the wind. Swinging my legs out of bed to close the window my feet were instantly chilled as they touched the floor. The carpet was also damp, and very cold. It had rained harder than I expected. A quick glance round the room showed that even the walls were dripping wet. I was feeling far too tired to do anything about it at the time and so lay back in bed. But the sheer reality of the dream kept me awake for at least another two hours.

Rising on the morning of the 25th, I found that everything had dried out sufficiently. I felt reasonably good, despite my waking in the early hours, and so decided to spend the day lazing around the countryside. Whilst eating my breakfast that morning, I pondered over the dream from the last night, and at how I was actually holding my breath when I woke up. The realism of my dreaming had seemed fantastic, but then a lot of people feel that way upon waking, some even disappointed that they woke at all. I was not one of those. The slimy green cyclopean walls hinted at some memory I was not able to place, leaving me with a nagging familiarity. But the creature was easy to place. It was from the frame of my mirror and the figurine from Scotland. Images such as these are bound to play tricks on the minds of the weak or the over imaginative. Breakfast finished, I started to make my way to my room to freshen up before wandering outside. It was only when I had reached the foot of the stairs that I noticed how quiet and still everything had gone. Collecting a few items before I set out, I hung the mirror on the coat hook on the back of the door.

One of the precipitous cliff walks took me along the coast towards the West. It was not a strenuous walk by any means but had a steep path here and there when the land rose to the top of a cliff head, yawning away to my left onto the rocks below. Seemingly I had been walking for almost two hours, with various stops along the way, and the time should have been close to midday. My pocket watch told the time as being a quarter to twelve, but the sun was still fairly low and the day had not yet warmed up. My watch must have been running fast, I thought, so I set about adjusting it to an approximate time until I got back. Upon resetting my watch I had the feeling that everything around me was moving at a slow pace, even the waves seeming to break over the rocks and then hang briefly in the air before crashing back down. Apart from the sea there were no other sounds at all. No birds, insects, farm machinery or wind. Nothing. I did not know why this should seem so strange for I was quite isolated, alone on the coast. (Alone? Would that I were.) I decided to turn round and start a slow walk back. This proved stranger.

I had not realised, until my journey back, that the temperature was not rising but instead getting gradually colder. This I could not explain for there was still no wind with a perfectly clear August sky. Still no sound or movement. An uneasiness stole over me and I decided to quicken my pace. Eventually I neared the village and thought that I heard talking from below the cliffs, laughing as well I think, but very soft, and very eerie. My first impressions were that it had been the wind but there still was not the slightest breeze. Then came the feeling of a presence behind me. A stone clattered down the path making me spin round, heart racing. No-one. Then that soft voice again. Malevolent. Not laughing this time but calling out. To me? I could have sworn that it called my name. As I stared up the path another stone came rolling from out of nowhere. It didn't take anymore as panic set in and I turned running downhill towards the village in a blind sprint.

Upon reaching the road I raced up it towards the inn. Still no sound, no movement, no people. Barring the sound of the waves and the voice which still followed behind. Hauling open the front door of the inn I searched for the landlord or whoever else might be within. Empty. The bar, kitchen and dining room were all empty. Yanking out my room key I pounded up the stairs three at a time. Again I could not find a single person. My door was swiftly unlocked and I bowled inside.

(Present-My room is so cold now, and although by my watch a whole day passes, night still has not come. The sun is high above me now, but not moving. That soft but hideous voice still calls from below my window but I dare not look. Those deep wet footsteps are thudding through the earth again. God…I shall need sleep soon.)

The chill inside my room was remarkable. As cold as ice. Crossing to the window, I sought to see if there were any signs of my pursuer. The window would not open and no amount of pulling could move it. But I heard a frantic clicking or scraping on the road below, and a laugh more like a hiss. Quickly turning to the door I was going to risk a glance into the hallway before locking myself inside. But the door, too, was held fast. Frantically looking the room over I noticed that there was a thin sheen of moisture all over the walls, floor and furniture. Then, a musty smell filled the room. Fish? I could not be sure, but it was definitely the smell of the sea tainting the air. The dampness could not be accounted for as my window was shut. Wiping my finger along one wall I tasted the moisture. Saltwater. Seawater. Seawater with the foul stench and taste of dead marine life. Gagging, I spat out the disgusting dew just as a noise from behind made me freeze. It was more of a 'slop', like a wet sponge falling to the floor. Turning slowly with my breath quickening and heart hammering with fear, I saw a piece of thick brown seaweed laying on the floor at the foot of the door. Kelp. And it was wriggling.

Just as I felt confident enough to move towards it and examine it, another piece landed on the first. Staggering backwards and sitting on the bed, I couldn't believe that I had seen it fall from _out of the mirror_.

The surface of the mirror was now shimmering. It became slightly blurred, the sound of the sea grew louder, then the mirror creaked and grew to twice it's size. I needed to scream but my mouth had dried up, and I found myself gibbering. My stomach knotted and tightened when I heard the voice.

"_Do not deny us, RANDALL, join Cthulhu in his dreams in R'lyeh."_

I think I must have passed out then, as the horrid laughter echoed through my brain.

It was after this episode that I awoke to my present horror, to which I am now resigned. Certainly there is someone coming for me…I hear Him in my dreams, suggesting things to me, threatening me with aeons of pain as His pale, sickly, wriggling larvae feed upon me for what would be an eternity. Several times I have woken from these nightmares crying.

(My feelings at the time of my waking cannot simply be put down on paper, except to say that I must have come to terms with the inevitable. If I had not then surely I would be screaming.)

Glancing up from the floor where I had passed out my jaw fell slack, and I remember half shouting or choking something in my fright. The walls of the room were (and are now) layered completely from floor to ceiling in moist brown seaweed, seeming to emanate from the mirror, and disappear within the glass. Standing up, I reeled from dizziness instilled by the foul reek of fish and dead sea life, almost making me sick. I steadied myself on one knee and looked at my watch. It said one-thirty. Also the date had changed to the 26th. Obviously it was still running fast, for it should have been around three-thirty in the afternoon. Unless I had slept for ten hours. If that was so, then the real time was not much past midnight. But still the sun shone.

Another thing that I have noticed about the seaweed on the walls-it gently heaves up and down like it was breathing. What scared me though was when I realised that it matched my own pattern of breathing.

My preoccupation had been so intense that I had not at first noticed that my room had grown colder. I shivered and, rubbing my arms briskly, looked for my overcoat. It lay on the armchair, so I stepped over and quickly donned the thick garment. The chill within my room was now starting to frost the window. My breath fogged as I blew into my hands. Still the room got colder, with the temperature dropping noticeably by the second, making my teeth begin to chatter. I sat on the bed and wrapped blankets around my shoulders to retain any heat I could. The speed of the frosting was ridiculous. My nose, cheeks and fingers started to numb and my respiration was short and painful; my eyes began to close, feeling an unending desire to drop to sleep.

Then warmth. A wave of room temperature washed over me. A blessed release. The numbness left my fingers, replaced by an itching as they warmed. Outside was a typical summers day.

My attention was brought abruptly back round to the mirror when I heard a watery, bubbling noise. Staring at it, slightly confused, I moved slowly towards it until I could see the surface shimmering again. The bubbling ceased and was followed by a deep, regular echoing that I could only describe as giant footsteps, emanating from the very ground below me. Slow and heavy, they vibrated up from the foundations of the village itself. They became louder and closer, until I thought that they would burst through the door of my confined room. Until the noise lessened and moved farther away. Towards the sea? Pipes. Can I hear pipes?

The seaweed still matches my breathing.

I now hear soft voices, sighing in despair, becoming clearer, the moans and cries of tortured souls. Piercing screams and a bubbling, gibbering madness of laughter of those that had lost their minds. In the midst of all this noise, a face was growing in the mirror. It seemed that it was travelling from up inside the depths of the glass, small at first but growing steadily bigger. An old mans face. Familiar yet alien. Standing mesmerised, the face burst from the mirror, hanging out of the frame, staring with jet black eyes, themselves like inky mirrors. No pupils. No life. No soul. Apart from the ones stolen. It spoke a single word to me.

"COME", before folding in on itself and disappearing backwards within the glass, which became immediately still.

Evening?

There is no circulation of air in my room. It is musty and stifling. The seaweed heaves gently as if asleep.

As far as I can tell, it has been about five hours since the face last appeared. Nothing has changed. Outside is quiet and still.

The room is now becoming more odious and offensive. I can hear the sea, but it is coming from the mirror. Whatever happens will be very soon. Would that I had my father's old service revolver. I could have put a bullet through my head long ago. When I come to think of it…There is movement from the mirror…

The following extracts were obtained with kind permission, but as such do not come to any definite conclusions. Apart from my own.

Cornish newspaper clipping reads as follows

27th August 1924

At seven o'clock yesterday morning, local fishermen from out of Portloe found a body floating face down in the sea near the cliffs a mere three hundred yards from their small harbour. The deceased was said to have drowned, but no specific details concerning the bodies apparent "bizarre state" can as yet be ascertained. The body was a young man, about early to mid-twenties, and was believed to have been staying nearby.

No more information can be gleaned from the Police at this time…

Notes from P.C. Dants report-Falmouth Police Station

29th August 1924

…the deceased, named as Randall Smith, architect by trade, was not a local man. He lived in the South East of England, and was staying at the Ship Inn at Portloe whilst taking some leave from his employer. Previous to this Mr Smith had been holidaying in Scotland…

…Mr Smiths family have been informed of his death and the circumstances surrounding it. They are due to arrive in Falmouth later on tonight or first thing tomorrow morning (30th). We also contacted Mr Smiths Scottish relatives, who were asked the whereabouts of a 'tea shop' close to Loch Ness. Apparently there are no shops of that kind in the area. We have chased up the lead on the antique shops in Falmouth. The first mentioned in Smiths account is genuine, dealing in furniture and the like, with the proprietor being a well respected dealer on that corner of the market. The other shop does not exist. All that we found was an empty building with windows boarded over. That is how it has stood for the past six years…

31st August 1924

…Mr Smith was not known to have had any enemies, outstanding debts or ever a crossed word with anyone. We are regarding this case as suspicious but are not as yet ruling out suicide or misadventure. The Coroner will determine the cause of death…

…the diary Mr Smith had been writing dated from the 24th to the 27th August, leaving a large question mark. He was last seen by the landlord of the Ship Inn on the morning of the 25th. Smith was found dead on the 26th, yet an entry in his diary clearly states the 27th. Perhaps a lapse of memory? It is still very puzzling, especially considering the bizarre condition of his body…

…the Coroner knows an excellent psychoanalyst who he hopes can give an insight on Smiths state of mind from the information we have. Still a fairly recent science, psychoanalysis…

Excerpts from the Coroners report. 

31st Aug. 1924.

…upon initial examination the cause of death can only be that of drowning. No bruises, lesions, cuts, burns or any other sign of a forced struggle or possible accident are apparent, barring the red circular marks around his legs and lower torso. These marks are raised slightly above the flesh, and look for all the world like giant squid rings. Hmmm, too many stories of the sea as a boy put that in my head. Smith was brought to me with his left hand clutching a mirror, which proved quite a task to release. The mirror has no particular fascination…

2nd Sep. 1924

…and when Davies saw the marks he confirmed what I had took to be only flight of fancy. The rings were indeed made by a giant squid or octopus. But I did point out that the rings were six to seven inches in diameter. Davies merely shrugged…

…according to Smiths G.P. he had never suffered from any skin complaint/disorder in his life. Yet once his body had dried out sufficiently I could see that it was covered with small dry scales, not unlike those of a fish. He was diagnosed as having suffered from an acute form of Icthyosis. The degree of this condition would have been impossible to keep out of the public eye, yet his family insist that he had never suffered from anything like this, and wasn't one for staying indoors…

3rd Sep. 1924

…it has been found that Smith was told to take leave from his employer as he was having 'difficulty at work'. He had apparently claimed to hear voices on occasion, and hallucinated several times. Smith had confided to his G.P. that the voices sometimes said 'objectionable' things and that he was feeling increasingly persecuted. By whom he did not say. Much of his unstable condition is borne out in his diary…

…no drug use was known or found. He was not an alcoholic and was in good physical health, aside from the inexplicable case of Icthyosis…

…as far as we can tell Smith could have been suffering from a psychological condition known as Dementia Praecox or Schizophrenic Psychoses which may have driven him to suicide…

…with my side of the case now closed-or taken as far as is humanly possible?-Smiths effects will be handed over to his family. All except for the mirror, for I have been told that it has been misplaced…

**END**


End file.
